


Ego Monstro.

by aetherytes (hanabusakokoro)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanabusakokoro/pseuds/aetherytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div>
  <p>Eren Jaeger believes he is a heartless monster. He drove his mother to suicide, pushed his friends away, and withdrew into himself. As a result, he believes he has been cursed with bad luck. Five years later, and struggling to make ends meet, he works in a small café, where he may or may not have odd feelings for the strange and mysterious customer that lurks in the corner.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Asphodel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If such thing as fate really did exist, and if it were a cure to appease our aching hearts...  
> Would our luck turn in our favour, and grant us one last chance to make things right?

Have you ever skipped to the last chapter of a book?

Sooner or later, you return to the page where you left off, but everything reads differently now. Perhaps you lost interest and you skim your way through, leafing the pages with mild disinterest. Suspense and urgency wither underneath a foregone conclusion. Or perhaps knowing that the struggles, the triumphs, the epiphanies will all amount to nothing, leaves even the brightest moments clouded in grey. Whatever the story, and whatever _your_ view -- to see the ending in that moment, transforms, _irrevocably_ , that which came before.

What if you turned back only to find empty pages, and a pen in your hand?

**ＴＨＥ ＥＮＤ ＯＦ ＹＯＵＲ 'ＷＯＲＬＤ' ＡＳ ＹＯＵ ＫＮＯＷ ＩＴ ＩＳ ＨＥＲＥ** ．

Once again my read read aloud the epilogue. I never quite truly understood it, but by now it was routine. Without another frame of reference, anything can become a part of a routine. Undress, wash my face, tuck myself in, and watch the world wither away. Wake up, eat breakfast, rinse and repeat. It wasn't _odd_ , because I had no one to tell me so. Nor did I have someone to explain.

_But what is a dream to one who does not understand the concept of dreaming?_ You could say that is it a second reality, overwhelming and terrifying in its intensity. And so, to sleep was not just to behold the end, but to live it. The end of _my_ story. The end of _all_ stories. And as the mind can conjure, in dreams, visions of things never seen, sensations of things never felt, so did my dreams impart the knowing of things never known.

But I knew the words. Before I knew the language, I knew the words. And to know those words, in that moment, transformed, irrevocably,  _everything_ that came before.

And so, when I awoke, I turned to another page. The page where I had left off. ' _Just another day, another waste of time._ ' I had initially thought. It'd be thrown away, or lost. But sometimes, in rare instances, it would be carried to me by fate or chance. In some ways, I wasn't wrong. In most, however, I _probably_ was.

Then again, something about that thought seemed awfully cliché. ' _fate_ '? ' _chance_ '? Since when had I believed in anything of the sort? Maybe it was odd, but to me it was something that was part of my ~~meticulous~~ routine. And as a being who was forced into forming the basis of my day upon such routines and strict rules, it began to seem far less odd, no less taxing -- yet still, somewhere underneath it all, there ached _something_. I couldn't quite explain it, even if you begged me to, but there was always some strong sense of deniability. That maybe I wasn't comfortable living under such circumstances. That maybe that was the reason I was so _irritable_ , so _angry_ , so _damn fucked up_.

I didn't dwell upon the thought for too long, though. And perhaps it were some dreadfully childish and almost prosaic part of me forced myself out of bed. Permitting a drawled sigh to escape my lips as I pulled myself away from under warm blankets and soft pillows -- a curtain of undaunted melancholy becoming an umbrella about me. Perhaps I was just feeling particularly apprehensive, about what, it could be anyone's guess, but... Ever since I was a child, I'd had the innate ability to just _know_ whether or not the day was going to be good, or bad. Sometimes I wasn't wrong. Much less than I was, but no one is ever 100% correct, right?

A further groan followed my somewhat disgruntled sigh, realisation settling in at the back of my mind. Scolding myself mentally for even resigning myself to such things. Thinking, I mean. I wasn't exactly the academic type. I'm by no means stupid, but I'm the kind of person who thinks action speaks vaster volumes than words do. Perhaps that was why I'm such an idiot in regards to my social abilities. In that I speak before I think. Or rather, I just _don't_ think. I **do**. And then everything goes wrong because I run my mouth, fuck things up, make mistakes... It's perhaps a little ironic, that I knew, _nebulously_ , what I wanted to say, yet I could never give it absolute cohesion. Something in my mind, some maelstrom, tore away sentences as they formed, and dragged them into the Lethean depths and replaced them with irrational, emotionally driven retorts that have got me into trouble more times than I could care to recount.

" _Fuck--_ "

A low and almost muted growl tumbled from my mouth, audible, probably enough so that Mikasa would probably have come running in to see what the fuss was about... Y'know, if she was still here. _Shit_ , that just made it sound like she was dead-- I mean, she's **not**. She's just... not _here_. You'd think it odd, with the strange possessiveness that she held over me, that she would go out of her way to be around me as much as possible. But lately, it was different. I didn't question it, because I simply didn't care. It wasn't going to necessarily bother me what she did and didn't do. And I know that makes me sound like a fucking jerk, but it was the truth. _I didn't lie about anything_ , even if it would save my ass. And what I really wasn't going to lie about right now, was the throbbing pain in the toe that I now clasped between my hands, teeth clenched so painfully tight that my jaw clicked in austere and almost earnest agony.

" _Fuck, fuck, fuck..._ "

My voice echoed my thoughts, each caustic quiver of the leg that I balanced upon trembling beneath me as I fell back onto the floor, a loud thud reverberating throughout the room as my ass made contact with the hard wood, and rather unsuspectingly ( ~~though with how my luck was already going this morning, I really should have expected it,~~ ) the back of my skull clattering against the wooden bedpost with another sickeningly audible thunk. It was perhaps then, that I realised exactly _why_ I didn't believe in such things as fate or chance. Bad things happen to bad people. And I wasn't necessarily saying _I_ was a bad person. But there had to be some kind of explanation as to why my luck was always so terrible. After all, I hadn't got the feeling that the day was going to be anything above satisfactory since before my mother passed away five years ago.

It took all my might to wrench myself from my thoughts -- for within the fortress of whirring cogs that burdened my somewhat lacking brain with the pitiable humming of irrational thought, I began to feel numb. That dredging up the memory of my parents, both dead and missing hadn't exactly been the best thing to think about. And there it was. I was thinking again. Lingering, dwelling on the past, beating myself up about it. Telling myself that it was my fault that Mother had died. And it was. I honestly believed it was. Because I couldn't help her. I couldn't stop her. I had been a rebellious child, and the last words I remember leaving my stupid mouth was how much I hated her, and how much I wish she would just not treat me like a child.

But essentially she had been right. I _was_ a child. I was a stupid and reckless and foolish child. I had want for nothing but the freedom I deserved, and now that I had that... well, it wasn't as _free_ as I'd initially thought it would be. But perhaps the worst thing about it all, was that I wasn't particularly sad, nor angry when I had received the news that she'd jumped in front of a train and killed herself. Maybe a somewhat sadistic part of me told myself she deserved it. Maybe another part of me was so tired of living that I simply numbed myself to it. Suicides happened on the tracks all the time. She would just be another face, another name on a long list of disappointments. It wasn't glamorous, nor was it chivalrous to resign one's self to such an end... but I had always known that it was me who had driven her to such drastic fate.

_Fate?_ Was that _really_ what it was? Or was that just myself trying to make excuse upon excuse again? Probably. Maybe I should just shut up and stop thinking so much. Maybe I should finally get my ass up from the floor and get dressed and actually get to work like a good obedient boy. Or maybe some strangely hedonistic part of me secretly found pleasure in the pain, that something told me I really did deserve everything that happened to me. In the past, and now. Or perhaps that, now curled against myself in a pathetic heap on my apartment floor, brooding and wallowing in misery and drowning within my thoughts, some part of me _desperately_ just wanted to die, and if not die, then just disappear without a trace. ~~No one would miss me~~. I had no friends and no real family. I mean, if I was _completely_ honest, the idea of friends never really appealed to me. Or rather, not so much appealed to me, but that it was pretty much impossible for me to clamp my mouth shut for long enough for someone to even begin to tolerate me. I didn't blame them. _I couldn't tolerate myself, either._

"Yeah... _another_ bad day today, Eren. _Typical._ "

An audible groan echoed from my tongue, then a sigh, then I rolled over, pushing myself off of the ground despite the agony I felt. It'd be gone in a few minutes or so, probably. I'd felt worse anyway. Regardless, I prepared myself for another arduous, yet completely boring and probably uneventful day of putting my nose to the grindstone. ~~Or in my case, toilet bowl~~.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When I was a kid, people often spoke of their dreams. Regardless of how I felt, I would always be asked that same nagging question. ' _When you grow up, what will you do?_ ' It's odd, I thought, to think so far into the future. How was _I_ supposed to know what I wanted? I was a naive and foolish child. Reckless, and certainly not one to think about where he was headed in life. I'd like to think I was one of those people who didn't dwell too much on the past. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but I really am the kind of person who lives for the present. I don't ever remember, however, deciding on a definitive path. Other kids wanted to be teachers or police officers or firemen. Some wanted to sing, some dance and some act. What I _do_ remember, however, is owning the one true volition to just survive. It's funny, but true. To just survive what life would throw at me was enough for my mind.

I use the term ' _survive_ ' loosely, in that surviving was only a bare minimum of what I had been doing. Without family, without Mikasa, without even friends to some extent, I had no emotional crutch. No support, nor someone to tell me what was right or wrong. I lived alone in an apartment complex, barely getting by, eating less than I should, reusing clothes days on end, and washing once a week _if_ I was lucky enough to have running water. Any little money I earned immediately vanished; bills, rent, sustenance... I _knew_ , for a fact, that my landlord was extorting me. I'd done the research, and the rent for an accommodation this small shouldn't be _that_ high. And a part of me wanted to interrogate the bastard, to give him what for, but the other part of me decided it wasn't worth it. That having a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in was enough, and that I didn't need to waste my time on such trivialities as wanting to beat the ever-loving shit out of Jean Kirschtein.

But even so, when I was a child, I didn't imagine myself where I was now. Scrubbing toilets and serving coffee in a café that was far more classy than I was. I don't even remember _how_ I got the job in the first place, nor _what_ qualified me for the position, but the saint who provided me with such a thing was definitely not the furthest thing from insane. Rather, what I mean is, is that she isn't particularly as down to earth as the women you see in the movies, or read about in books. And when I say ' _insane_ ' I mean that she's ' _kooky in all the wrong ways_ ', and is the kind of person that leaves you wishing that working in the place was all a dream. That isn't to say that I hate nor respect Hanji. Quirky as she is, she gave someone like me, inexperienced and wet behind the ears, a job. And I can't exactly discern whether or not it _was_ pity, ( ~~but for the sake of my argument, I'm going to assume it was,~~ ) but I really am grateful. Even if my childhood had led me to scrubbing toilets and trafficking coffee upon another's whim. It wasn't whether or not the job suited me. It was the fact that, even through all my un-luck, I was able to find a small ray of hope. Maybe God had _finally_ ceased pissing on me for a few minutes for a breather, or it _really_ was some kind of twisted fate.

I scoffed at the thought indignantly, eyes rolling in their sockets at my dissatisfaction of the idea. Yeah, right, fate. ' _Whatever,_ ' I thought as I sighed heavily, backing up from a now less-than-dirty toilet bowl, ' _As long as I'm alive, I don't give a shit._ ' With the position I held in front of the seat, one could probably ascertain a mental image of something a lot different; not that I was a drunkard, nor would I ever drink alcohol. I tried it and it was gross. Like someone had shoved the brush I'd been using to scrub the toilet with down my throat. Now if _that_ wasn't a disgusting mental image, then I have no idea what is.

Regardless, I cut away from my thoughts and stood up, my hands almost immediately raising to cradle my now aching back. Bending over a toilet and scrubbing vigorously wasn't the first thing I imagined I'd be bending over for, and it certainly didn't paint a glamorous image in my mind. I mean, bending over for anything but to pick up the keys I'd dropped on the floor was the only thing I'd ever imagined requiring such an action.

Shrugging away my agitation and ever growing dysphoria, I pulled off the latex gloves I'd been wearing, and tossed them aside into the trash. The thin material wasn't exactly the best protection from the bleach, but it certainly stung a lot less than it would of, had I not been wearing them. The splotchy stains on my hand were merely battle wounds, hands wrung with naught but aggravation at that one small spot that just wouldn't go away.

Normally, I wouldn't have been so dead set on making it _absolutely spotless_ , but recently, according to Hanji, a customer had been complaining about how ' _filthy_ ' it was. I didn't really care, nor did I really pay attention to whatever she had said. A job was a job, and as out of character as it may seem for someone like me, I followed orders. To a T. Maybe it was just because I was obedient. But that idea wasn't really applicable in this situation. I did my job because Hanji told me to. I did my job, because if I _didn't_ , then I'd risk losing my only means of getting by. And right now, I didn't need that. Because until I was able to prove myself some worth, I was stuck with this pitiful job, and this less than satisfactory lifestyle.

And so, for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day, ( ~~which was certainly a large number, considering it was only 10AM,~~ ) another exaggerated and perhaps all too exasperated sigh fled my lips as I pushed open the door to leave the toilet, an arm raising to lazily swipe across my forehead to wipe away the beads of sweat that collected upon my brow. For whatever reason, the bathroom didn't have air conditioning like the rest of the café, and whilst I didn't particularly care about that, it certainly didn't help with such laborious tasks in the height of summer. Maybe it was just me, but the heat made it hard to concentrate on anything but wanting to get home and hope to whatever gods there were that just maybe I'd have enough luck and my water would be working. More often than not, that wasn't the case.

Regardless, hot and sweaty as I was, I'd done what I'd been asked to do, so all I could do now was return to the second half of my job. Which wasn't exactly as fun as you'd imagine. But I guess its one saving grace is that, I suppose if you were into this sort of thing, you would meet a ton of interesting people. Well, I ' _guess,_ ' but I'm not entirely speaking for myself, but I had seen my fair share of oddities. 

Though there was this one... person. For, I imagine, the past week or so, I couldn't help but notice a certain individual that  stuck out from the crowds of hipsters and stuck-ups. I think it was something about his atmosphere that pulled me in, but watching him  from behind the counter on a daily basis, I had began to notice certain quirks about him. And I know this sounds creepy and perhaps a  little voyeuristic, but I'm not doing it on purpose, I _swear!_

But something... _something_ is quite odd and entirely out of place about him, especially being _here_ of all places. I'm not saying I have a preference for this kind of thing, but his looks aren't exactly something the sneeze at. _He's definitely handsome_ , I can say that much. He's neat, and tidy and all too fastidious. But what intrigued me perhaps the most, was that he held no company. He would come into the café at around 10:20 every morning and sit at the same table in the corner by himself. Then he'd order a cup of tea, but only one throughout the day, ( ~~though I'd never seen him get up to order. Probably because I'd always been scrubbing shit stains from toilet bowls at the time, but whatever.~~ ) Then he'd leave as the clock struck upon exactly 6:00 in the evening. It was a little surreal, in all honesty.

However, I'd often seen him leafing through various papers and occasionally stopping to scrawl something down. I dare not approach him for fear of disturbing his, what I assumed to be, work. Anyway, I'd derailed from my initial line of thought. There was a certain kind of atmosphere about him. I have no idea what it was, but it sure as hell was alluring. _Alluring_. I had to shake that from my head countless times before it refused to become negligent. At least he hadn't noticed me staring at him yet. Or if he had, he'd done a damn good job at hiding it.

I sometimes think I'm kinda being a little too obnoxiously creepy, or perhaps too hopeful in that I kind of wanted him to notice me. Or at least, y'know, gratify me with a glance of acknowledgement so I could stop feeling so fucking weird about gawking at another guy from across the other side of the room for no apparent reason.

" _Oooh, someones staring agaaain~_ "

I blinked groggily, head turning to snap in the direction of Armin who leant back against the counter next to me, a sly grin upon his face. Almost immediately I frowned, brow furrowing in annoyance at the blond's childish jibes. If he was trying to aggravate me, it damn well worked. A low, dissatisfied growl erupted from the depths of my throat as emerald hues glared harshly into the opposing sapphire.

"Shut up, Armin."

I groaned, hands raising to cover my face in ire. It hadn't been the first time he'd teased me about it, either. Since day one he'd poked stupid and pitiful taunts at me in an attempt to inflict homicide upon my ego. I suppose one would grow accustomed to it, or at least learn to make oneself less obvious. But was it _really_ his business? ( ~~ _No._~~ ) So what if I was staring? I was staring because I was _intrigued_ ,  **not** because I had any feelings for an absolute stranger. He was a _stranger_ for god sake. And Armin was childish, in insisting I was getting some kind of gratification out of being unintentionally voyeuristic, or that I was indeed in the closet about such things. Not that I had anything against gay men. I mean, people have preferences, why the hell is it my business to care? ( ~~ _It's not._~~ )

"Eren's in _l-o-v-e~_ "

Another voice chimed in on the verbal abuse, optimistic and _way too unwelcome_. Sasha. _Of course_. A sigh escaped through a clenched jaw, inwardly rolling eyes and a further furrowing brow followed suit. They knew all too well how short my fuse was, yet they still persisted in their ridiculous toiling with my emotions. And I let them. Because that one had sent me over the edge. Maybe it was because I had no way of controlling it. Maybe I just couldn't take a joke. Maybe I just really, really wanted them to shut the fuck up and keep their nose out of my business. Who cared whether or not I was interested, ' _love_ ' certainly wasn't the word to use for a situation that I had no intention of pursuing.

"Would you just both shut the fuck up about this already? Keep your **damn** noses out of my life, _it's fucked up enough as it is--_ "

I snapped indignantly, nostrils flaring in my anger. I hadn't noticed, nor particularly cared that my voice had raised in that split second and the café had gone quiet. _All eyes were on me_. And it'd be hard to deny that I didn't audibly swallow or lower my gaze shamefully. And the heat that seeped into my cheeks and flared them bright pink betrayed my anger for offhand embarrassment. Not for the situation, but for the fact that I'd let slip things I'd rather not have anyone hear, let alone the entire café. Not only that, but _he_ had raised his gaze, too.  _He was staring right at me._ Probably judging. Probably disgusted. Probably hating. _Probably. Probably. Pro--_

First impressions suck.

This was **not** how I wanted him to perceive me _at all._

" _I'm going home._ "

I mumbled under my breath a few short moments later, when the shock had died down and the café became abuzz with the hushed whispers and mumblings of the tables' occupants. Some shared judging glances. Some merely shook their heads. I didn't dare bother to look up and gauge either Armin's or Sasha's faces. I'd already had to stop myself from punching one of them, nails digging deep into the palm of my quaking fist hard enough to draw blood. Turning swiftly, I discarded my apron and pushed my way out of the building. I'd explain it to Hanji later. I'd lie and say I was sick or something ridiculous.

But I don't care _who_ you are. I don't care _why_ you're taunting me, for whatever reason necessary. Go ahead. Laugh at me. Pity me. Use me as a pawn in your ridiculous games. Beat me, bruise me. _I don't care._

But you don't use _that_ word so loosely.

You don't assume. You **don't**.

Love is **not** a joke, nor is it a game.

And a _heartless monster_ like me, cannot possibly love.

~~_No matter how much I wish I could._ ~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the overly short chapter, shoddy exposition and lack of dialogue. Much of this story will be told through Eren's thought processes rather than speech. I'm trying to get better with how I write but honestly, how I write is how I roleplay, haha. (Not very well, I might add.)


	2. Aconite.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  I know the things I've done have caused trouble to a lot of people,  
> And betrayed the expectations of many.

There's a monster at the end of this book. Its the blank page where this story ends, and I'm left alone with my thoughts. I thought that, before, it had been a chance for revolution. To change what had been done and will be done. A chance to change my fate. A chance to prove myself wrong. But this blank page was not my canvas, and there was no pen in my hand. It was all a lie, right from the beginning.

However... life is a rather curious thing, is it not? One could assume so, or in my case, hope. Having had been born unto this world twenty or so years ago, my particular round of this game referred to as ' _life_ ' ceases to change. I have been forced to repeat the same mundane fate over and over again. If only I had possessed the will to rebel against my melancholy long ago, then perhaps I could have put an end to such an unfavourable situation myself. Perhaps if I hadn't been so ridiculously hard-headed around that particular time when this calamitous existence began, would things have perhaps shifted to my favour?

These thoughts are not unfamiliar to me. While I kept my face expressionless, my mind was constantly racing with all sorts of ideas -- ideas on how I could get around to putting a stop to my melancholy. Had I only known of the boisterously whirling torrent of anguish I'd unleash upon myself to begin with... well, perhaps things would be different? Or maybe not. Hardly anything surprised me any more. Anything I see or hear, as ridiculous as it all is, ceases to even bring any sort of reaction out of me nowadays.

As I let my mind wander, I lay rather restlessly in bed, maroon covers pulled up to my forehead. By the looks of it all, one would likely assume that something had obviously bothered me to the point of something I rarely felt -- anger, or irritation, perhaps. Dirty clothes and near empty food containers littered the ground beneath my bed. Both Armin and Sasha had _selflessly_ decided to leave me alone for the rest of the day prior after being on the receiving end of my harsh verbal lashing, (though it was probably entirely unfair on my part.)

' _What idiots... have they yet to realize it? They are but the unfortunate audience members. I am the precious performer in this cruel tragedy, yet I lounge about doing absolutely nothing... If I had the ability to cut these binds, I would do **something** about it..._ '

I thought furiously, my nails digging sharply into the edge of my palms as I sat up, kicking the bedspread away. As I sat up, a sudden uncomfortable feeling began swirling in my chest, and though it were familiar, I couldn't shake the feeling. It was the kind of signal I'd get when something terrible was going to happen. Maybe not right at this moment. But within the day, sure.

With a glum expression no doubt etched upon my features, I pushed myself out of bed and strode clumsily over towards a pile of clothes upon the wooden floor that were, although dirty, much less dirty than anything else. It didn't take long for me to slip on the worn jeans over my boxers and the pale green turtle-neck upon my torso. Still, even after waiting a few moments, that nagging feeling had refused to leave. Something was going to happen today, and I doubt it was something that I couldn't go without. Still, I tried to push past these negative thoughts, stumbling into the small kitchen to prepare a light breakfast before heading to work ( ~~no matter how awkward it'd be, or how much I didn't really want to go~~.)

Sighing gently, I raised a slice of half burnt toast to my lips, palms twitching slightly as a sort of gentle warmth ran through the tips of my fingers and through my arms. It was a little odd, I thought as I slowly shut my broad emerald hues, but it was somewhat comforting. Not the taste of generously burnt bread upon my tongue, or the warmth that spread through my fingertips, but the silence. The comforting silence that enveloped the small kitchen. Maybe it was entirely ridiculous, but these small moments of silence kept me sane. Work would be noisy, no doubt filled with Armin's ' _I'm sorry_ ''s and Sasha's ( ~~when she wasn't going on about how hungry she was,~~ ) incessant whining about her boyfriend Connie. It was nice to know I could hold on to a little peace within the confines of my own home.

_... Bzzt Bzzt--!_

Y'know... or **_not_**.

Another sigh fled parted lips as I swallowed the remnants of charred toast, brow furrowing in discontent at the familiar buzzing of my silenced mobile. That foreboding sense of discomfort mixed with irony bubbled in the pit of my stomach again, as if deigning to even allow me a moment's peace was taboo. But people didn't call me often, that, and I didn't really have many contacts logged into the thing in the first place. So it hardly made it difficult to narrow it down to any one individual. Calling this early on a Tuesday morning didn't bode well for me, if knowing my luck, I was right in guessing who was calling at all. Putting that aside, I decided it be best that I humour him a little and at least click the button to receive the call. Whether or not I'd pay attention long enough to care could be anyone's best guess. Probably not, but I'll leave it at that.

Picking up the device from the table, I rolled my eyes when, indeed, the name ' _Jean Kirschtein_ ' flashed upon its display in broad letters. Clicking the green ' _receive call_ ' button, I raised the phone to my ear, managing an almost muffled ' _Hello?_ ' under the guise of a yawn. It was 7:48AM after all. Heavy breathing was the response I'd earned, before hearing shuffling and the clearing of one's throat from the other end of the line.

"Jaeger, you still owe me money y'damn brat. If I don't have that cash in my hand by tonig--"

_-Click!-_

The simple sound of that horse's infectious voice was enough to drive me down into the earth. Every little word, every varied pitch, every individual breath he took bothered me to a rather unsettling extent. Ignoring him and ending the call in such haste would most likely become my downfall at some point, but I wasn't in the best of moods, nor had I been since the day prior. Yet time and time again I had foolishly thought that one could build up a resistant to the idiot's words after a while. Unfortunately, that hadn't been the case. Even if I found myself to be the most patient individual on the planet, I could hardly not turn a blind eye toward such an artless, beslubbering moron. It was **_frustrating_**. So I simply chose to not deal with it. I then took a moment to cease with the absent-minded biting of my thumb that I hadn't noticed I'd partook in silent agitation whilst Jean yammered on to slam the small black device upon the table, for fear I'd break it further if I held it within my grip for much longer.

I had wasted my own precious time by lending my ear to his degrading jibes, and all he dared do was whine and complain? Why, the nerve of such a common-kissing idiot like him never ceased to surprise me. Had it been later in the day, and I'd been busy, his words could have been easily ignored. That being said, I'd sooner get my comeuppance for this little fiasco. Nothing short of a few bruises and perhaps a broken bone or two if I were not entirely too lucky.

But I'd thought for a moment that my day couldn't get any worse than it already was. In fact, I had almost decided to let that thought comfort me before Jean had decided to call. Extorting me for more cash to spend on something ridiculous, no doubt booze? What a hasty-witted moron! Even if it came down to the end of that asshole's very existence, I had never once intended to owe him more than I already did. Which brings me to the point I'm trying to make, in which I didn't owe him anything. I'd already paid this month's rent so where in the fuck he gets off deciding I owe him _more_ money is beyond me.

_... Bzzt Bzzt--!_

I shook my head, ignoring the incessant buzzing of the thing to down the rest of the orange juice I'd poured earlier in one fell swoop. Catching my breath, I then stood up from the table, collected any dirtied utensils and placed them in the sink. I'd probably wash them later after work if I wasn't too tired. Most evenings after work I spent listening to the old busted radio I owned until I fell asleep. I didn't own any fancy TV set or any real means of entertainment. For one, it had never crossed my mind to bother. And even if I did, I didn't exactly have the funds for a licence, let alone a set in the first place. Secondly, I had found my company in the books I'd borrowed from the library once and had forgotten to return.

I remember one story I had read a long time ago. I have a hard time recalling its name, but I knew the story well enough. I suppose its because I can relate to the story in some way, or something ridiculous like that. But I believe it went a little like this...

_Once, there was a boy who found a box. The Bird of Happiness was inside the box. The bird would take him to Forever Land, or so he had hoped. But inside the box, there was a box smaller than the last, then another, and another, fit tightly like a matryoshka doll. In a cramped, dark space, he finally found his little bird. But it was far too little, and far too late. The bird had been long dead. It had met a bloody fate in the end. The moral of the story is, is that everlasting happiness is a joke._

So I guess that's why I never really expected much from the world, nor invested much of my time in it at all. All good things die, just as dreams of forever, and lovesick fantasies do.

Shaking that thought from my mind, I turned to gaze up at the small clock that hung on the wall above the door, reading ' _8:01AM_ ' from its surface. 8:01. That meant I had just under an hour to get to work, and provided that the level crossing next to the station wasn't in my way, I could probably make it in time with a few minutes to spare. If it was in the way, I'd have to either wait for the train to go by, or climb the old, decrepit pedestrian overpass. If I were entirely stupid, I'd consider that as an option. But knowing my luck all too well, and hearing the stories of its state, I'd rather elect to avoid it.

Regardless, calculating such things wasn't really my forte, and it seemed kind of pointless. I'd never been late before so worrying about it all seemed entirely ridiculous. Either way, I lowered my hands to brush against my jeans subconsciously brushing away the crumbs that'd fallen and nestled themselves within the folds of fabric, making a mental note to vacuum the room at some point, too.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

If I could honestly say I didn't expect the barriers to be barring the crossing, then I'd be lying, because I _had_ been expecting it, and they _were_ blocking the road. Its kind of pitiful, but I perhaps thought that, if I hadn't thought about it so much, then it wouldn't have happened. _Silly me_ , of course _my_ thoughts control every bloody thing in the universe. ~~I am God after all~~.

It's not like I care about being late. Rather, I would sooner have no fucks to give about anything else, than care about being late, but honestly. I'd rather just get the day completely over with, embarrassment aside, Sasha and Armin be damned. I hadn't the temperament to care about offhanded sympathy or lack thereof. I'm more annoyed with myself and my outburst than anything else. I wish I hadn't said anything, because before then, no one knew, and no one cared, and that had suited me just fine. For the most part. I mean, there are the times where I wished for things I couldn't have, but I'm only human. Or as human as a fucked up dumbass can be, anyway. And that's not very much, in case you're wondering.

A frustrated sigh escaped me as a I raised a hand, furiously palming the back of my head, the other buried in my pocket. Yeah, it was hot, stifling, the middle of fucking summer, and here I am wearing a god damn turtle-neck sweater all because my hands can't keep themselves away from my neck some nights. I suppose I shouldn't glaze over something like this, but right now I'm too frustrated, irritated, hot, sweaty, bored to even attempt trying. Maybe when I'm of more sound mind, I'll explain it. I'm not entirely sure about it myself. Had I the mind to see someone about it, talk about my problems, do something or other to try and fix this mess I'm in, then maybe it wouldn't be a problem. Alas, however, I'm stubborn, and I know that.

The train rattled by some three, four minutes later, and I would've jumped out of my skin, had I been alone. It was uncomfortable, but the people that crowded the pavement waiting to cross were all too eerily quiet. Part of me wanted to feel self-conscious, or at the very least assume that the silent and awkward and perhaps all too tense atmosphere was entirely my fault. I hadn't exactly been wearing a welcoming expression, nor did my demeanour, my stance, or the aggravated tapping of my foot do me any justice, but I have little point to make. The barriers then rose, albeit dreadfully and painfully slow, but they did.

"Fina-fuckin'-ly, holy shit..."

Exasperated, I threw my hands into the air, before ducking under the not-so-entirely-raised barriers and running across the road to the other side, and into the café. Perhaps I neglected to mention, but yes, the café was right on the other side of the tracks. And yes, perhaps I could've been on time had I used the overpass. But no one else dared use it. Why should I bother? I'd probably trip and fall and break something, or hit my head, or, hell, the bridge would probably give way underneath me. Were I entirely stupid, I'd risk such a thing. And I may be a little stupid, but I don't lack common sense.

I frowned at the obnoxious tinkering of the bell above the door as I pushed it open, meeting no gazes, but heard nothing but silence. Save for the lack of Hanji, it wasn't too different. ' _9:33AM_ ', read the clock that hung above the counter, meticulously ticking. Thirty-three minutes late. No big deal, really. I sighed again, which is something I wish I could get out of the habit of doing, and trudged behind the counter, pulling my pre-emptively name-tagged apron from the rack and putting it on. Armin watched me silently, for fear, most likely, that I'd say or do something in regards to yesterday. Sasha was absent, but from the sounds I could hear in the bathroom, it sounded like it was her turn for duty. Good. I'm sick of cleaning stranger's shit stains from toilets that aren't my own.

Walking into the back, into the break room, I clocked in, signing next to my name half heartedly. Technically, the café didn't open up until 10AM, but even so, for some god forsaken reason Hanji required us to be here an hour early to prepare things. Brew the coffee, put out the fresh pastries, rub down the tables, sweep the floor, clean the toilets, etcetera. I probably should help, but at this rate, and with my current mental state, I'd be little to no help at all. I still couldn't shake that feeling I'd had when I woke up. I knew something bad was going to happen. Today, sometime, and to me. How, when, or why didn't matter, but it clawed at my stomach and made me heave in anxiety.

I sat down, exasperated, upon the entirely too uncomfortable couch in the break room and leant back, eyes turning, trained upon the dimples and bumps upon the ceiling. Countless times, I'd tried to count how many there were, but it was a fool's errand, ultimately. And it was anything but silent. The clock ticked, and I could hear Armin bustling around out front. I could hear Hanji talking incessantly on the phone in the office, and probably most disturbing of all, I could hear my own breathing. With each rise and fall of my chest, in, and out, every breath. Perhaps I was thinking too much into it, but I definitely was anxious, and I definitely didn't want to be here. Not that I could just up and leave, and not that I would, considering I made the effort to be here, but regardless. Being here meant that I'd be out there. And he'd probably be there again. And I'd probably catch myself staring for some god damn reason I still hadn't figured out.

Maybe it was the way his brow furrowed in agitation mixed with inspiration as he scrawled down whatever he was thinking. Maybe it was his sharp and all too pointedly stoic gaze, or the dark circles about his eyes, or the way they'd close in thought for long, arduous, painful moments. Or maybe it was his lips, the perpetual frown that cracked, turned south, formed a dark line across the contours of his jaw, to his neck, to his broad shoulders that hunched over ever so slightly. But it could also be his hair, short, and tame and neat and how it framed his face eloquently, perfectly. It could have been that, or his odd little quirks, like how his nose would wrinkle when he'd had an idea, or the light that shone in his eyes as he fervently became inspired by something new. Or maybe it was just his oddly comforting presence, at the back of the café, alone, quiet... I don't remember how, why, or when, but at some point, my heart had probably fallen for him, despite the fact that we are indeed, strangers, and despite the off putting distance between us, or the fact that we are completely, entirely, wholly, not right for each other, even if there was a chance. Even if my brain had enough common sense to not fall for the bullshit my heart was pulling, I hadn't been entirely too sure. Maybe it was just an entirely too big of a dose of wishful thinking, and I shouldn't think so much about it.

"Fuck..."

I groaned, leaning forward, face buried within the palms of my hands as I shook my head in disdain. I hadn't meant for this to happen, and I hadn't meant for him to take over my thoughts like some kind of infectious plague. I hadn't meant to become some kind of creepily estranged and all too odd voyeur. I didn't ask for these damn feelings I didn't want. But when it comes to affairs of the heart, the brain doesn't get a damn say in anything at all. The heart becomes selfish. It wants what it knows it can't have, and yearns for everything it knows isn't possible. Maybe its just something completely profound, but the heart is a damned nuisance. And had I a heart that were not numb and unabashedly selfish, then perhaps I would agree with my own thoughts. Maybe I was just being all too precocious and entirely contradictory for one day. Maybe I was just tired. Or sick. Or just past the point where I'd even began to hope I had a shred of sanity or common sense left. But this is what thinking does to you. You think too much, and even you, who thinks yourself to be even remotely intelligible can seem like a down right idiot.

The sounds of a door opening, shutting, footsteps drawing closer, and then the hand on my shoulder filled the silent void and broke me from my thoughts this time. I sighed, raising my head from my hands to look up and stare at Hanji's face, that pitifully and blissfully ignorant gaze filled with that offhand sympathy stared back at me. And I frowned, unable to register even the barest and most simple noise of acknowledgement to her silent plea for me to go and actually do my job like she was paying me to do. I know she was concerned about me, for some reason. I don't know why, but she always had been. I hadn't exactly protested against her sympathy, and it wasn't as if it fell upon deaf ears. It's just that I didn't want it. I had enough self pity to wallow in by myself without anyone else's help, thank you very much.

I did my best to force a smile, pathetically albeit, but I tried. And as I stood up, I brushed her hand away from my shoulder, shook my head, and turned to saunter out to the front of the café where I should be, grabbing a broom from the corner as I passed to make it at least look like I was being useful. Which I immediately then wasn't, as I merely pretended to sweep the floor, instead too intently watching both the time, and the people that passed by outside through the window. The dull and uncomfortable pain in my chest had yet to subside, and it had now grown tenfold, snowballing all of my anxiety and stewing it deep within the catacombs of my stomach, along with the butterflies that tugged and pulled and fluttered, and the hive in my mind that ebbed and flowed unsteadily, wavering, turning, twisting.

_Th-thmp... Th-th-thmp..._

And my heart rattled in my chest, louder and louder, echoing against the walls of my mind. And suddenly, there was a loud noise, faint at first but quickly amplifying in both volume and intensity. White noise, screeching through my mind, no, not white noise -- my own screams of pain, as became apparent in the instance I'd dropped the broom in favour of clutching my head in agony. Nothing but that irritable screech could be heard in my mind. And then silence. Everything was becoming distorted, and I reached up, my trembling hands clasped over my ears and temples, fingers clenching my hair as I shut my eyes tight. I didn’t want to feel this, not right now, not here of all places. If there was anything in the world that would stop this agony from brutally killing me, then let there be a  ~~saviour~~ , solution,  **something**  — No, no, this was reality. Of course I couldn’t just wish for it to stop. I deserved it after all, and things don’t work like that. I slammed my fists against my skull, and with each movement, rang negative emphasis — as if I was trying knock all of this out of my head and leave myself senseless. But it wouldn’t work. No amount of pain would fix this.  

The room began to spin, or perhaps that was my inertia speaking, but it definitely was not still. Because this pain I felt refused to subside. Even with all of my subconscious chatter, attempts to daunt the constant jabbing and fiery burning that spilled out from my chest — nothing could stop the pain. The pain that dug deeper than superficial, wounds and scars and physical being. The real pain I felt was a deep, much more meaningful pain. Little scars carved on my heart. Things that’d never be erased no matter how much I tried. The things I just wished so badly that they’d disappear. But they won’t go away. Because as fleeting as the thought of forgetting and moving on was, I knew that, deep down within my heart of hearts, I am still that pitiful, heartless monster, that deserves every damn thing that happens to me. Armin had probably made his way to my side, eyes inquisitive, the moment I'd dropped the broom to the floor. Not that I'd seen or heard him, but I knew he'd been there, the shadow that cast itself across my peripheral, and the hands upon my shoulders had been enough to shake some kind of foundation into my being for that brief moment. 

"I'm fine." 

I lied through my teeth as I wrenched my shoulders away from his grip to raise my eyes, now open, to glance up at the clock, ' _9:57AM_ '. Then I turned, catching a glimpse of his somewhat hurt mixed with worry filled expression, to pick up the discarded broom, and dragged it back to the corner I'd taken it from. It didn't take an idiot to know that I definitely wasn't fine, and that the stumble in my step, or the paleness of my face drenched with sweat had been a sure-fire tell-tale of such a thing. But I was through with becoming a victim to my own mind, and I was through with being babied by people who had no fucking clue about me. As if missing large chunks of my memory wasn't bad enough, I didn't know what I was supposed to feel. Angry, sad, distraught, hurt, whatever, I don't care, I just want to be alone. I don't want these damn feelings I don't understand, I don't want to fall in love like in one of those overly sweet and tooth-rottingly disgustingly cliché piece of crap romantic comedies. I don't want to be the poster child for fucked up as shit dumb ass, but I don't have a choice. I have to grin and bare it because I don't. I can't change how I feel because my non-existent heart doesn't allow it. I can't change how I think because my brain is too numb to care. I can't do anything about it because I have no volition to try. It's a vicious cycle.

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Oddly enough, the rest of the day had passed by without much incident. Sasha and Armin kept their distance from me, albeit not without some protest, and Hanji had let slide what had happened yesterday. I suppose I should be thankful for the small things, but in actuality, I just wanted to forget that it happened at all. It hadn't helped when I'd burnt my fingers as my mind wandered to thoughts I'd rather not share, but I'd played it off as both negligence and a lacking sense of self awareness. I'd ducked and hidden behind the counter when that familiar face had walked in, too, like many days in succession before now. I had to constantly tell myself that I wasn't flustered, and that what had happened yesterday didn't happen at all, but it didn't ease the brevity of the situation. I couldn't just hide here all day, so I tried and tried my darnedest to focus on anything else but the hammering of my heart against my chest or the heat upon my cheeks.

It would be be easy for me to look back and to believe that I’d not had a sense of foreboding about what awaited, that some sixth sense, some telepathic intuition that may have laid dormant within me, had stirred and become alert. But I was a somewhat sturdy and commonsensical individual, ( ~~not really, but just go with it,~~ ) and I felt a constant uneasiness and apprehension about the whole ordeal. But in a sense, perhaps it were all in my head. I’d thought a lot about things in recent days, and to say that I was losing my sanity to the game of ‘ _life_ ' -- well, that was something that I could deem all the more feasible.

But everyone has those kind of irrational fears that are entirely justified, but they're scared to admit them because people would think they're being ridiculous, right? Entirely normal things to be scared of, whether they be supernatural or completely irrational, or just small insignificant things. Maybe the fear was an illness. A paralytic fear or, something that brought back stirring memories. I can't say that my fears are anything quite so whimsical or indeed interesting, but I held my share of fears, much like any other person. Anyone who told you that they were fearless, is a liar. No one is truly indestructible. No one is ever fully able to laugh at everything the world has to throw at them. _Make no mistake, don't trust anyone who says they're fearless._

Regardless of that, I'm not ashamed to admit that I fear even the smallest things. Trivial things like a fear of heights, of falling from those heights, and the nausea and the dizziness that comes with it. Or a fear of being trapped in a place with no escape. Fear of the dark, or rather, not the dark itself, but that which lurks within it.

Or perhaps a fear of losing my will to live.

I suppose that one is what clicks with me the most. Something that I'm constantly wrestling with on a daily basis. Something that haunts me in my dreams and claws at me constantly in the dead of night. I suppose its rather irksome, but I guess that's just why I put on a brave face and smile to hide my anguish. Crying about my fears and whining and falling prey to my own thought would net me nothing but offhanded sympathy from people that didn't honesty care about me at all. I didn't need a pity party to help me on my way.

Though I wouldn't be lying if I said that I wanted someone to care, even just the tiniest bit. Someone who would lend me a hand and push me forward until I could forget about my guilt, forget about my self loathing, forget about the times I would wake up caked in my own sweat and harbouring a heavy heart. And to forget that I'd been waking up some nights, for years, unable to breathe, for my own grip around my throat was so unbearably tight, that I'd shocked myself out of my own nightmares. The dark line of bruises hidden beneath buttoned collars and turtle-necks betrayed my sanity. It gave me a refreshing reminder that this was my reality, and though it were burdensome, I didn't deserve to have someone to help me forget such trivialities.

I suppose, in a way, small victories such as these became my undoing.

I suppose I should have also expected myself to be pulled, dragged, tugged by the hair into a darkened alleyway and slammed into the wall face first. I should have also expected the tugging of my arms, the grotesque sounds of shoulders cracking and joints dislocating, and the rough darting of recoiled hands outstretched deftly to seize my wrists in a bulwark grip and pin my head to the wall harshly. I couldn't quite decipher what it was being pressed against my back, ( ~~other than my own arms,~~ ) or what had nestled itself into the space between my legs and roughly winded me when I'd refused to come quietly, but I had some kind of inclination. It had been instantaneous, or seemingly so, but as soon as I'd heard steel capped toes clicking upon concrete did I _really_ know whom I'd been apprehended by. Definitely not some amateur, and I hardly had anything on me that warranted being mugged, so the fact that I'd hung up on Jean that morning dawned upon me. And the feeling had been a sign. Good. Maybe he and his lackeys would kill me and it'd be over with.

Only, Jean wasn't that much of a wannabe hard-ass. He'd never kill me per se, but he'd definitely attempt to rough me up a little. Normally I'd fight back, but with the situation, and the fact that I couldn't move my arms nor turn my head enough to retort in any kind of way, I simply chose not to. Perhaps that'd be for the better. In the past he hadn't done too much damage, save the psychological trauma, the asphyxiation and the numerous scars and broken bones I'd tallied up, but something told me that I wouldn't get off with an easy break this time. That this time had been my last chance, and now we'd hit ground zero. Lines had been drawn, crossed, erased, etcetera. All that was left to do was find bullets to fire. This was the bullet. This was my punishment for being obnoxious, disobeying, neglecting something I really, honestly shouldn't have neglected, but it was too late to reason with him, I could tell. My mind could tell. This was it. Game Over. No more continues or retries to fuck around with this time, Eren, you piece of shit.

"Tch, not so tough now, eh, _Jaeger_?"

Inwardly rolling my eyes at his piss poor attempts at inflicting homicide upon my ego, I remained silent, save for the muffled painful groan that escaped my lips unintentionally. Even if I spoke, it wasn't as if I'd be coherent. Breathing was becoming difficult, crushed against the wall as I were, and the hand that firmly held my head against the wall had a tight hold, brunet locks trapped between a grip that was far too tight for his own good. That same grip pulled my head back and slammed the side of my head against the wall, twice, after I'd neglected to answer, and the hand that held my left wrist against my back twisted it further, pushing roughly against my spine. I was pretty sure it was probably broken, now, but I couldn't be too sure, my mind had become hazy after the second impact, inky black spots dancing around the edge of my peripheral, taunting, mocking. And I coughed, feeling the blood stewing in my throat, and the blood on my temple, and the blood on my lips, cheeks, chin, jaw -- I felt like throwing up, and I would have, had I not been choking for both air and on my own blood.

A few minutes and two more attempts to cave in my skull later, my arms were set free. Then the grip on my head vanished, along with the ( ~~what I now assume to be a knee,~~ ) object that had nestled itself in the cavity between my thighs. Faint sirens became abuzz in the distance, and not taking any chances for fear of their on condemnation, I assumed that Jean and aforementioned lackeys fled the darkened alleyway between the café and the station without so much as a word. And I was left alone again. Broken, beaten, maimed even, to a greater extent, all because I didn't listen. All because I didn't pacify his drinking habits. All because I had been cocky and obnoxious and _stupid, stupid, stupid--_  

Disjointed coughs interrupted my thought ( ~~or lack thereof,~~ ) process, then retching, shoulders shaking violently as I expelled more blood than any other matter down my chin and staining the once-green fabric of my shirt, and mixing, too, with the gravel upon the ground. That, too, had sapped the last of my strength, as my knees buckled and my legs collapsed underneath my weight, arms hanging limp by my sides uselessly as I slid down the wall into a pitiful heap upon the floor. This was it. This was my Game Over. 

Its entirely hazy, and I'd probably made it up in my mind entirely, but I swear I'd heard another voice, unfamiliar to me, far off, too hazy to make out any words nor phrases. And the distinct sound of flesh that was not my own being beaten, screams of pain that were foreign to me, echoing across the walls and reverberating, ricocheting in my ears loudly. Then the soft but almost panicked pitter-patter of footsteps, light upon the gravel, much too light, but I couldn't recall much. Then the soft touch of a hand upon my back, and the gentle tugging myself away from the wall into arms: warm, strong, arms that shook me gently albeit with a modicum of urgency and doubt.

"Hey, kid, stay with me here--"

I'd tried to fight against the abyss of sleep, tried to pry my eyes open, but the tears mixed with my own blood hazed my vision, stung, ached. I raised a hand, now finding that my arm hadn't been dislocated ( ~~but damn, it definitely felt like it had been,~~ ) and rubbed vigorously at my eyes, coughed, furrowed my brows slightly despite the trauma that shot like bullets through my right temple. It hadn't helped an inch, because the black spots still mocked and taunted me, and lines were blurred, but laying in those arms, I honestly feared for my life. For the first time in twenty years, I feared for my life so much I'd began to sob like a damned child. It had only just now hit me that the hazy face that I could barely make out between choked sobs and bleary eyes, was _his_ face. 

Almost immediately, thoughts of yesterday had began to echo in my mind and sunk in my stomach like a stone. Suddenly that warm, strong hold that enveloped me burned like acid upon my skin. All rationality fled my mind as I shook, trembled, wrenched myself away from his grip pathetically, and scrambled upon the ground with tired, aching limbs. Though he was on me again within an instant, arms pulling me against his chest, fingers pressing harshly against the gash upon my temple in an attempt to suture and stop the bleeding. And I'm sure I squirmed, and wrestled against his grip, pushed his arms away weakly, coughed and spluttered, choked on sobs and cries of agony -- yet he remained vigilant throughout the entire ordeal, no complaints, cooing and shushing lightly against my ear: "Shh, it's alright, you're safe now."

After a while, that cognitive instinct dissipated, and the fear was overtaken by the pain. The sobs had stopped, and the will to even care about who was holding me, or indeed why he'd even helped me at all -- that much was a question my mind hadn't touched upon. But my heart was restless, and it wavered, unsure, stuck between hammering against my chest and lacking the volition to try. Each breath I took seemed like it was a forever away, and each rise and fall of my chest felt as though it were collapsing and caving in upon itself. Somewhere along the line, my hands had pitifully clamped themselves upon his shirt, fingers curled between folds of fabric as if I were a child waist deep in nightmares. There had been no signs of protest on his part, but my mind had become vague and my vision blank long before then, and at some point, I'd lost conciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I am so damn sorry it took so long to get this out. I've been really sick, unmotivated, and unable to concentrate because my brother is a precocious prick. The chapter didn't go entirely how I'd planned it, but I avoided something that I hate, because initially there was going to be rape involved. But rape is something I can't read about nor write or hear about easily, so ultimately, I left it out. Instead, have an unplanned brutal beat up, haha... I'm terrible with context, so I'm sorry if there is any tense switching or grammatical errors. I don't have anyone to beta this shit so I've gotta do it myself and even I miss things sometimes because I get so sick of reading my own work.


	3. Bluebell.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His wounds were seldom above skin-deep.  
> But then again, he was never really one for words.

I'd perhaps learnt more about this unwritten, page-less book in two days than I had in a long time. I'd like to say I'm satisfied with my findings, but to know what that would entail is something completely foreign to me. Perhaps the pages will be left blank, unwritten, unexplored, forever. Perhaps this was all just a metaphor in regards to my mental state, but I have little care for it. The monster still stands, taunting, proud, and pitifully, utterly alone.

But it is as they say: 

' _Doubt indulged and cherished, is in danger of becoming denial._ '

And you would really think that I was safe; locked within my head and blind to the world. You would really think that I was safe from harm. Were I sound of mind, and not filled with all these trivial intricacies, then I'd be inclined to agree. But I most certainly wasn’t safe, because it didn’t stop me from thinking. I wasn’t safe from my thoughts. The cogs and wheels that kept turning in my mind, slowly. They processed thoughts of everything. Contemplating what has happened, and what could have been. Thoughts of why I’d done what I did, and thoughts of how I could have done things much more differently.

Y'know, thinking doesn’t help me. When had it ever helped me? Why did I trust my mind so much, when it was clearly, always in the wrong? I think… that maybe, I'm not what I should be. That I need to change. That I want to change. And I want to say that I knew what it was, but I was in denial of it. Wouldn’t it make me seem weak if I just up and changed everything about myself, because I was so riddled with guilt, and hatred, and self loathing? No… no, it wouldn’t, would it?

But then there are times, when my spirits are low and I’ll fall into a depression. Times when I think I can just give up. No one would honestly miss me, would they? I'm just a waste of space. A pitiable, boring, waste of space. No one truly likes who I am, I think. And I don’t blame them at all. Because I honestly can’t stand myself either. I'm idiotic, cowardly, heartless, scared and _stupid, stupid stupid --_ I'm doing it again. Thinking too much. Reading into things that are better left alone. Thoughts that are better left buried under these intricacies and these scars. But it is the truth, is’t it? Everyone would be better off if I just disappeared. Because its not as if…

Maybe I really should give up the fight. Lay these thoughts to rest. Yes, I may have had resolve. I may have had a conviction to follow through on -- but I can’t do it. Not alone. Not with these thoughts. Not with this emotional baggage. Because everyone would go about their daily lives as if it were normal. My disappearance wouldn’t pain anyone. No one would grieve for me. I’d already broken what couldn’t be fixed. I’d already left my mark. And it was time for farewell again, and again and again. Just how long would I keep running? Until my limbs grew tired and my lungs gave out? Until I cry myself dry and starve myself sick? Until I become numb to everything, and wither away in silence...?

Denial is such a strange thing, is it not?

I suppose, when I look back upon it, it really doesn't change a thing, though. Who I was five years ago, was long dead. I was alone now. My once-friends had drifted apart. Days seemingly past as if nothing had changed at all. Seasons changed. Things came and went -- it was almost as if everyone had forgotten. Or that they were hiding something from me. And every time I asked them, ' _why?_ ' it would be the same return of answers again and again -- ‘ _We’re busy!_ ' ' _We don’t have time!_ ' ' _Grow up Eren!_ ' ~~Liars~~.

It had began to claw at my mentality long ago, little by little. Even if I had tried to move on. Even if I had forgave, and forgotten just as much as the next person -- nothing changed about my situation. I was still a cowardly, hate riddled boy, mired in nothing but my self loathing and pity. Quite frankly, its as mundane as it is nauseating.

And I'd like to say I was content with what I have, but I'm not. Trost is no different from all the superficial cities and towns I’d dragged myself to previously. The majority of the people here are shallow and thoughtless. And it hadn’t been that I’d always thought this way. There was once a time where I could look at the people in these places and laugh and smile like a normal boy should. But things had changed now. I had lost that privilege long ago.

In reality, I was breaking. Suffering from my losses. Dying inside without escape, nor saviour. Its hell or high water and I won’t tell anyone how, or why… but I am slowly slipping into the realms of dementia. What is dream, and what is reality? What is a dream to one who does not understand the concept of dreaming? What is reality to one who has blurred the lines between both? I can't differentiate from the two any more. The people I’ve met — are they figments too? Much like I… just wandering fragments, waiting for their time to die?

I had sometimes continually told myself that it was their fault I had become this way. It was their fault I’d lost my mind. Lost my volition. Lost my absolute will to do anything right. And yes, I was running away from my responsibility. I was throwing accusations left and right to try and cover my tail, and it always, always comes back to me. And I hate how I act sometimes. So irrational and thoughtless; unbecoming of me. What would _he_ think of me if he knew how unstable I was now? Would he believe me? Would he care? Would he laugh it off in a painstakingly aggravating manner? Would he roll his eyes and tell me I was ludicrous? Probably. And that thought doesn't help my ever fracturing mentality.

What do I really have to lose now? I have nothing. No pride, no honour, no dignity, that much was certain. What I do have, is false. And I am alone. And maybe that bothers me a little. But I can't stop myself from doing what I do. I can't stop playing this ridiculous blame game. This is my psychological insurance. And whether or not it was entirely healthy for me to continually be doing so… an overwhelming sense of relief burns away the fog within my head when I do. For my conscience, though not entirely guiltless, is all I have, after all.

And so when I awoke, the first thing I noticed was the endless sea of white staring back at me. A window I couldn't see from my position had been perched open, the sun filtering through curtains and beating mercilessly down upon my body -- a faint breeze soon flooded my senses, too, with the scent of freshly cut grass and a hint of smoke in the distance. It took me a moment to realise that where I was, as disorientated as I felt... why am I here? Or rather, more specifically, how did I get here? Where is ' _here_ ' anyway? It doesn't feel familiar.

Panic began to imprint itself upon my mind, but my arms were heavy like lead and my head weighed a ton. The last thing I remembered was leaving work at 6:30PM as per usual, then nothing. Before then...? Blinking, I struggled to raise my hands to my face, glaringly obvious dark bruises dancing upon the surface of bony wrists in ringlets. My shoulders shuddered, quivering in agony. My bare chest thumped with an all too distant echo. My skull pounded with an ache I was all too familiar with, yet... Feeling, touching, groping about my forehead, inquisitive digits found neatly bound bandages, sticky and wet with what I could only assume to be blood. Is that it...? Had I passed out from blood loss? Did I even make it home? I felt exhausted. I can't remember. Trying to recall anything makes the pain worse.

_Who am I again...?_

Wait, who? Surely I could remember that, right? No, no -- I fumbled, half dazed optics flitting in a wild frenzy as I pushed myself up, forced myself to stand, rise, fall, _falling_ \-- The loud thump of flesh upon wooden flooring greeted me, echoing throughout the room despite the occasional rush of a car driving by and the twittering of birds that adorned the trees outside. And as I lay in a pained heap upon an unfamiliar floor, in a room that was not mine, in a place I did not know, I began to think. It was strange. No, no, _more_ than strange. Things like this don't just happen. It can't be a coincidence that a large gaping hole had torn itself into my memory. It'd happened before once, twice, maybe three times, right? I don't remember. I don't _want_ to remember. All I can will myself to recall is hazy. Pain, blood, and someone crying. Crying... Was it myself? Probably.

Panicking won't solve this dilemma, will it? Maybe I could find out where I was, or even who I was, then perhaps a resolution would come to me easier. I took a breath, shaky at first, one... two... Ah, it _hurts_. Like my chest is on fire, like my throat is melting, acid, _acid_ , it **_hurts_**. I clenched my eyes tight, teeth gritted in agony. Hopefully, lingered a thought in the back of my mind, this would only be temporary. Some kind of vision. A nightmare. Something that was anything but real. I'd wake up, and this will have all been a bad dream. I'll be in a soft bed. I'll have a family who loves me, friends who care, _a life of some kind of tangible form_. Not this. Not this... confusion.

_Your name is Eren Jaeger. You are a monster._

Ah, that's right, that's right. That's who I am. How could I forget such a glaringly obvious detail? My name is Eren Jaeger. I'm a monster. My mother is dead. It's my fault. My family hates me. I have no friends. I don't deserve anything. This is not a dream. I'm an obnoxious brat. I was beaten, though I am still alive. And I am alone, in a place that I do not know, nor care to. I should have died. I _want_ to die. I want to die now, is that so much to ask? Why am I still alive when I clearly don't deserve it to be this way?

I would've attempted to push myself from the floor once more, had I not known that it was both futile and probably not within my best interest. But I needed to get out of here, wherever here was. It wasn't a hospital ward that was something I was certain of. Though I hadn't had a foothold within my thoughts too deep before the sound of light footsteps shook the ground beneath me, vibrating against my temple as I lay, curled against myself, the absolute picture of desolate. I could only assume the door had swung open frantically, though I couldn't picture as much, my back had been facing the door. Hastened steps echoed closer, a gush of air and a surprisingly cool hand upon my back shook me, and I was suddenly then all too well aware of my situation.

A frown tugged at my lips as whoever it was who was saintly enough to show me any kind of compassion wordlessly, albeit carefully and entirely too effortlessly for my liking, lifted my crumpled form from the floor and sat me upon the pristine sheets of the bed I had occupied only some minutes before. I hadn't protested, purely because I lacked the volition to try. I hadn't bothered opening my eyes, because lethargy clung to the edge of my mind, welcoming me like an old friend. And maybe there was something dreadfully and utterly all too childish about me that forced my body to move without thought, but I hadn't realised. Thumb and finger curled subconsciously, desperately to the stranger's wrist in some pitiful attempt to cling on to something, anything. ' _Don't leave me,_ ' it had dangerously oozed with something akin to that. Or perhaps, ' _I'm scared,_ ' or, ' _Save me ( ~~from myself,~~ )_' but I was too tired to care. Like a stranger was going to pick up on my childish subliminal whims, anyway.

"Oi, kid..." he breathed, lacking hesitance, but there was definitely a sharp edge to his tongue, "Stay the hell in bed if you know what's good for you."

I remained mute in response, nodding slowly, though it didn't ease my surprise. Whoever it was had a voice that was crisp and clear, unlike anything I had pictured in my mind before now. It certainly hadn't fit in with the saintly image I held in my head, that was for sure. His language was the first glaringly obvious clue, but as gruff as it were, it was still laced with an underlying sense of sincerity. Or maybe I was just delusional, but regardless, I still held a weak grip upon his wrist with numb digits, and he'd yet to reciprocate, nor force me to let go. A sigh filled the space, and the lump in my throat began to swell, the taste of blood still thick in the back of my throat from the night before steadily increasing my desire to vomit.

Wait... the night before...?

It was almost comical how ridiculously quick the memories had flooded back at that point. One second I was a amnesic mess and the next, I had the inexplicable urge to force my limbs to lift themselves to run -- where to, it didn't matter, but I wanted, no, _needed_ to leave. Yet for some profound reason that I couldn't explain, I remained still, hands recoiling to rest against my knees. And I listened to his breathing and the mumblings of ' _Filthy,_ ' and ' _Brat_ ' and other derogatory terms that laced themselves with each rise and fall of his chest. I almost wanted to question why he'd saved me the night before, but I couldn't will my lips to move, nor pluck my vocal chords to voice a sound. My lips ran dry, and I neglected to whet them with words that would surely only fall upon deaf ears. Did I really need to know they why or the how? Of course I may have wanted to know, but digging my own shallow grave was something I'd rather not continue.

Maybe it was just an overwhelming sense of relief or something entirely and utterly different, but... that thought hadn't honestly helped. And a part of me wished I'd just remained without my memories, regardless of why. But even after what had happened two days ago, and now this...? I truly, honestly, didn't know what to feel. Part of me was irritated because I'd let myself succumb to such a thing as feeling anything above gracious for his help, and another part of me was confused, entirely, because this stranger was different from the avidly inspired, beautiful and kinda attractive ( ~~in a mysterious kind of way,~~ ) stranger I'd come to admire from the dimly lit café corner. Not that that changed my opinion on him in any way -- so he was merely multifaceted. No one shows everything about them upon their face for everyone to see, anyway. If anyone knew that all too well, it was most certainly me.

Though I can't deny that it was hard to not wince with every jab and prod he'd make at my temple as he unwound the gauze in favour of replacing it with fresh dressings, but I'd tried to steel myself. Granted, I did have quite a large gash upon my temple, so flinching nor at least whimpering even in the slightest was not an impossibility. Regardless, I kept my eyes shut tight, yet my thoughts ghosted upon my tongue, mocking and taunting my weak willed short fuse. I had to know, I really, honestly, had to know _why_ because it was killing me inside. Because if this was just another damn deliverance of pity, or justice or **_whatever_** , then I wanted nothing of it, regardless of the fact that my head pounded and my chest ached in his presence. Because I don't believe in fate. Fate, to me, is one hundred percent, utterly and entirely an impossibility. I refuse to be a puppet on strings, much like I refuse to accept that I was going to get out of this without owing him anything.

 "I'm not some kind of charity case, so why are you--"

Quibbling lips entertained with the idea, yet only silence followed. _Unbearable silence_. And though his hands did not falter, there was a pause in his movements. I could feel his hot breath upon my face, surprisingly sweet, despite the lingering smell of smoke that filled my senses much like an afterthought. The nerves that embedded themselves below the surface of the bridge of my nose began to tingle dully at the close proximity. And a fresh bout of nausea rose and seated itself within the pit of my stomach, clawing at the bowels with anxiety upon anxiety, because he was still silent and I was still breathless, yet... I willed my eyes to open, light filtering through translucent lids only to be shadowed by his face that loomed far too closely to my own.

"Ah... I didn't mean..."

I stopped again, blinked, then averted my gaze weakly, though the pink hues of heat that emblazoned my cheeks like freshly cut wounds betrayed my attempts to stay calm. My voice had probably quivered, and my convictions wavered, but when I opened my eyes, bored peerlessly into those depths tinged with so much sadness, hate, confusion, loneliness... I couldn't help but feel some kind of guilt. And perhaps I was scared, too. Perhaps I truly wished that it could've been someone, _anyone_ else that had saved me. And then a part of me was glad. And maybe it was ridiculous of me to think so, but had he chose to not fill the void with his petulant silence, then the hammering of my heart upon my chest would've filled it just as much.

"S-sorry..."

I tried, though the tension was thick, and the knife I'd chose to slice it with was dulled, blunt. And though he did not speak, nor retort in any way, his hands silently rose, ruffling my hair lightly like a father would do to their child. It was comforting, for a moment, until I realised he was probably mocking me and I shouldn't relish the sensation of his bony fingers across my scalp for fear of falling too far, too fast. Instead, instinct opted my face to fall, a frown turning down the corners of my lips as though I were disgruntled. Five minutes alone with him and I'm already reduced to a pouting, stuttering mess. How utterly ridiculous. First impressions do, indeed, suck. Royally.

He didn't linger wordless long after my childish display of grief, however, a short spout of laughter erupting from his throat in such an oddly saccharine manner, I almost choked. Confused, I chanced another glance upon him, though his face had now returned to its previous stoic visage, and he'd stepped away, wringing at his hands and complaining under his breath and how filthy they now were. I guess everyone had their own share of intricacies that the hide behind a mask every now and then, so I suppose I shouldn't pry.

"Get some rest, kid. You're going home as soon as I trust you're well enough to not fall on your ass the second you stand up."

Instinctively, I obliged, hoisting my legs up onto plush sheets and curling against myself, not bothering to bury myself beneath their warmth. As comforting as it were, and entirely too selfish of me, I hadn't given it a thought as to whether or not I was intruding upon him at all. Or, indeed, being too imprudent, in that I'd probably taken over the only bed within his home. He left without another word, picking up the soiled bandages and excusing himself. It hadn't entirely dawned upon me that I was indeed without my shirt, and that he'd undeniably been able to see the prizes and medals collected upon my neck, my collarbone, my chest in forms of bruises and scars plentiful. Maybe he didn't care to know, nor care to _not_ know, but I couldn't do much to prevent something that had already happened. If he asked, I'd explain. Perhaps not the truth, nor an entire lie, but the volition and conviction was there.

Sleep came all too quickly, and the inky abyss claimed me once more. And that time, for the first time in what felt like years, I closed my eyes and saw nothing but darkness and heard nothing but silence. Under any other circumstance, it may have been comforting. However, the perilous void only served to trouble me further -- it reminded me of things to come -- it reminded me that now that dreams had indeed not manifested themselves within my subconscious, it made it entirely a too true and realistic chance that they would manifest themselves into my reality. The dreams had been a constant reminder that my end would be both preordained and premature, lest I do something to prevent it.

But what could _I_ possibly do...?

I hadn't even a clue as to what I was dealing with in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, again, I know it took a long time. I'm a notorious procrastinator, and because of how Chapter 2 ended differently that I originally planned, I've been having difficulty veering the story back on to its tracks. After this, though, I believe it should be a little easier for me to write, now. I'm also sorry that I apologize a lot. Again, this isn't beta'd because I have no one I trust enough to do it, so please tell me if there is any mistakes anywhere, etcetera. Thank You!


	4. Bamboo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Close your eyes. Let my words wash over you.  
> You are safe now.

If words were something that I could manifest easily, then there would be no doubt that the words written upon these blank pages would be filled with naught but pleas for something far greater. Not that I entirely deserved greater, but it was a thought. A thoughtless thought, granted, but a thought all the same. I still question why I think sometimes. Or rather, not think, but do. Do stupid things, be reckless, obnoxious, uncanny and uncouth, mess up everything… Perhaps that is why the pages of my book yet still remain blank. Or perhaps I’m just trying too hard to be prolifically profound.

But having faith, means living with uncertainty. Feeling your way through life, letting your heart guide you like a lantern in the dark. I suppose that metaphor would make entirely more sense if I knew what being anything but heartless was like, but… I suppose I could say some force drove me to do what I do. Whether or not that was my head or my heart, well… who could honestly say?

I think there was once a time, though, long ago where I could honestly cast my eyes upon the past and find nothing but happy memories. Memories I could say that I was proud of. Memories I cherished dearly with my heart, because they were little glimmers of hope — inklings to the time when I had once not been this monster I am now. Vague and passive childhood memories. The little things. Live living through my childhood in blissful ignorance. Back in the rolling hills of Shinganshina, I was the king of the world. Frivolous, young, and oh so oblivious to everything. It was a fleeting thought. What would it be like, to go back to that time, and be able to forget everything else as if it were nothing short of a dream?

I suppose I’d made it entirely obvious, but as I grew older, things began falling apart at the seams. I was torn away from my kingdom, my paradise — and those memories became all too precious to me. Far too precious. And that was a consequence I hadn’t figured would be a problem up until now. But things change, distances grow, connections break and mend yet… getting too attached? Oh, how I wished I hadn’t been so attached. Then perhaps my heart would not yet be filled with so much grief and suffering that it’s steeled itself and became stone, void, empty. Heartless. Perhaps things would not have come to this. But I’d dragged my mother down with me, dragged her through that hell and back again, and left her there, shamelessly teetering on the border between a sound mind and a shattered persona.

She took the easy way out.

And was I proud of what I had done? No, far from it. And yet I still ran. I ran away again and again and abandoned my responsibility. I’d become too attached. I’d let her believe she was worthless. And I regretted it. And I wished I could let it go. As if I were lighting the flame within a lantern, and setting it off to the wind. As if that would change my past, or at least allow me the brief respite of forgetting. Then I could forgive myself for my sins. But… things were never truly that easy, and my lantern would remain unlit, unable to shine its beacon and pierce the veil that wrapped and entangled itself around my past. Because apparently fate had dealt me these cards after all. And there was just simply no cheating fate.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The darkness soon stirred, and all too quickly for my liking, as I cracked my eyes open slightly only to immediately regret the decision, a soft groan tumbling through dry lips. My throat was parched and whilst I certainly didn’t feel hungry, my stomach had other ideas. I lay in silence for a moment, listening to my bowels twist and turn in fervent agony, and ultimately decided that I really did need to eat something, as the last thing I remembered eating was two days ago now. Not that I was particularly complaining, considering I sometimes went for three days before the black-outs began. Hanji would usually slip me a doughnut from the patisserie when things got too bad, but most of the time I refused her kind charity. I mean, its not like I didn’t appreciate it, but I’d put myself in this situation. It was my problem if I couldn’t feed nor clothe myself properly.

Instinctively, I almost gagged as my tongue ran across the roof of my mouth and teeth, recoiling as I tasted iron. Blood still caked my mouth and throat and I assumed that was why it felt like I was going dry heave soon. I needed to get up and at least ask if I could borrow my saintly stranger’s bathroom to, if not just gargle water and brush my teeth, perhaps borrow his shower or at least a sponge if that were more preferable. I mean, I was beginning to get sick of smelling my own sweat, and it was kind of embarrassing, and I felt terrible for being in such a state. But despite that, I couldn’t help but feel even worse because I hadn’t even caught his name, nor thanked him for his hospitality regardless of my want or un-want. 

In lieu of staying firmly under sheets that I don’t remember pulling over myself, I sat up slowly, turquoise hues vaguely skittering around the room curiously. Silent. The curtains had been half closed and the window shut tight, probably locked. Curious eyes roamed further, across dull blank walls with the occasional painting, a small bookcase pushed up against the far wall, a wooden dresser in the corner. On top of the dresser it was meticulously clean, holding nothing but a glass vase with wilting flowers that seemed near three days old. My brows furrowed, scrutinizing how lacklustre, how boring, how dead it all seemed. Like it wasn’t being lived in at all. As if it were just a place to sleep, nothing more, nothing less. In a sense, I guess that mirrored my own room in much the same way. Not that I cared, it wasn’t my place to judge.

Turning my eyes towards the door, i noticed that it had been propped open slightly, as if he’d come back to check on me discreetly throughout the night. I assumed, anyway. But I guess that was just irrationality speaking. Regardless, I shouldn’t make a habit out of over thinking things, nor assuming what I thought. Breathing a short sigh, I stood from the bed, now feeling far more steady than I had the day before, despite the dull ache in my temple and the raw bruises blooming shades of purple, blue, yellow, still in rough ringlets from my wrists to my elbows. I didn’t need to spare a glance at my chest because I knew of the damage that had been done. I knew it all too well.

I rolled my shoulders, albeit painfully, and silently thanked whatever gods there were that they hadn’t been dislocated nor broken. The wooden floor was cold upon my soles as a stood, gripping the bedside cabinet for balance as my inertia accustomed itself to being upright again. Besides the dull aches, I felt surprisingly less unstable after a few moments had passed, and made my way quietly towards the door, curious to the raven’s whereabouts. I was beginning to get sick of being half naked, if not a little self-conscious, too. A shower or at least a toothbrush and a glass of water would be oh so incredibly welcomed right now.

Opening the door, the silence that instilled itself within the room only followed me further into the halls, drowning out the sound of my bare soles padding against cool wooden panels. White walls offered me no promise of acknowledging even the tiniest iota of sense as to who the raven was, and I didn’t particularly feel courageous enough to begin snooping into other rooms for fear of being chastised. Finding the stairs, I took one last glance about the hall, and, hearing no noise emanating from closed doors, I decided to chance my luck and venture down to the floor below in hopes of finding something that didn’t chill me to the bone. My footsteps were light, albeit clumsy, limbs still not entirely used to doing anything but laying dormant, but I managed to successfully make it to the ground floor, brows furrowed, turquoise eyes uneasy.

A glance left and right left my mind blank, still aching for answers that old paintings and potted plants couldn’t offer me. Though an open arch at the end of the left side, thirteen paces from the stairs led me to the porch, shoes neatly lined the shelves of the shoe rack in tidy pairs. I blinked, noticing my battered, dirty sneakers upon the floor next to the door below the small incline of another further step. A basket with black umbrella resting inside it stood on the opposite side of the door, and a coat hook hung on the wall above that, occupied by an unused grey rain mac I didn’t recognise — probably because it was, indeed, the height of summer and the city hadn’t seen rain since almost two months prior.

Deciding that this wasn’t where I wanted to be, (even if the temptation to just run and leave were evident in my thought process,) I turned towards the other end of the hall, retracing thirteen steps and then a further sixteen, before reaching another archway that led into an open room. Peering through the wooden frame, I blinked upon seeing that it was much more cosy, much more lived in that what the rest of the house seemed like. A writing desk annexed itself before the front facing window, littered with sheets of paper, books, pens and pencils in pots and various other forms of paraphernalia. A leather office chair was tucked in beside it, a blanket folded neatly and perched over the armrest. The curtains that adorned the window behind the desk were drawn shut across it, allowing only a small crack of light to peek through.

I hesitated for a moment before stepping across the threshold into the living quarters with much trepidation. Blinking, curious optics roamed throughout the room, taking in its atmosphere. Packed bookshelves filled with literature that I both recognised and did not stood stout next to the tidy and well kept desk.. A small radio that was abuzz with quiet classical music that I hadn’t heard from the hall sat upon a small side table against the wall, obviously well kept. A set of cream coloured armchairs and a couch faced away from the archway, arcing around a rectangular mahogany coffee table that sat nestled between them. Further beyond that, there was a mantelpiece that held no photos and little else but a small clock and another vase adorned with flowers that looked healthier than the few that were in the room I’d awakened in. Below the mantelpiece, the fireplace was pristine, probably unused for years at best if the lack of wear and tear proved anything.

I was about to leave, to examine the third archway I had passed but my eyes just happened to stop their ever roaming piety to fall upon the form of my saviour, curled against the armrest of one of the plush, cream coloured armchairs. The book he’d been occupied with rest upon his lap, opened, hands folded neatly upon the pages. His eyes were closed, and his shallow breathing along with the steady rise and fall of his chest only indicated to me that he was indeed asleep. Silken tresses were askew, crumpled beneath the cheek that had lolled back and rested itself upon his shoulder. And his face was vaguely calm, the dark circles beneath his eyes becoming the only tell-tale information that sleep was something that didn’t come to him often. His lips fell into a line that wasn’t quite a frown, nor was it anything akin to a smile, but it was present. He looked so defenceless, serene… It was unnerving for me, if anything.

A part of me hadn’t had the heart to disturb him, but the other part was quickly becoming sick of the blood that curdled in my throat and the fact that my bruises were on a very clear display. Either way, as much as I’d like to admit that watching him sleep was both endearing and slightly creepy on my part, I furrowed my brows, footsteps finding their way to stumble across the floor and stand beside the armrest. Tentatively, I reached out a hand to tap him on the shoulder, yet he did not stir. I tried again. Once, twice, three times, yet no response followed save for the furrowing of his brow and a slight twitch of his nose. And I couldn’t quite discern why, but my breath had caught in my throat at the sudden disturbance — probably because I was afraid of what I was getting myself into, or better yet, getting myself out of.

Releasing the breath I’d held, I began to chew on my lip in uncertainty, questioning whether or not this was indeed a good idea at all. A very small part of me sincerely hoped not, but that was the half-rational side of my brain. I tapped him on the shoulder again for a fourth time, before offering a soft shake, then recoiling. Yet no response followed, and it had began to irritate me a little because the nausea that had become a veritable swirling maelstrom within the pit of my stomach was increasing in its intensity. A frown worked its way upon my lips as I leant closer, turquoise inspecting his face further, worry becoming an evident precautionary tale about my face. Another shake of his shoulder. Then a third. And a sigh, and I was about to pull away but —

As quick as I’d had time to catch my breath, arms lurched upward, gripping my wrist suddenly, twisting, forcing myself down as he rose from the seat. And I’m pretty sure I imparted my own slew of profanities during the commotion, because his grip on my bruised wrist wasn’t exactly loose. A sharp cry fled my lips as he pressed my temple against the armrest of the chair, a jolt of inexplicable agony flying through me and shocking my system. I suppose that had brought him back to his senses, because as soon as I’d yelped in pain, he’d recoiled and let me go, stumbling backwards enough so that his calves lightly brushed against the coffee table. Yet I remained unmoving, save for the hand that raised to cradle my head, digits fumbling against the gauze that was wound against my temple. I suppose I’d brought that upon myself, but I hadn’t realised that he’d attack me simply for trying to wake him up. That’s some guttural instinct I wish I had, let me tell you.

"Ah? Its just you, kid. Nice to see you’ve finally got your ass up."

I had to bite back a retort, unsure of whether or not I wanted any more injuries, instead opting to force myself to stand once more despite the jarring pain and the stars I pushed to the back of my mind. I guess I really was right when I thought that there was something a little off about him, though its still too early to make assumptions. Turning to face the raven, (and trying so hard to not look down upon his stature,) I raised an enquiring brow, my left hand rubbing the bruises upon my left wrist unconsciously. Back to the matter at hand, now that I’d awakened him and he’d become engrossed with picking up the discarded book that found itself a place upon the floor in the middle of the scuffle, I cleared my throat in uncertainty.

"Uh… T-thanks for everything uh…"

"Levi."

He interjected, pacing away towards the bookshelf and placing the volume in its rightful place. I watched, bewildered and entirely confused in that he’d acted completely as if nothing had happened before now. If I was completely honest, then it felt kind of unnerving in its own right — I mean, normal people don’t just do that, y’know? I tried to wake him up not mug him or anything. Then again, it wasn’t as if asking him why he’d done what he did would net me any answers I really wanted to know, so I neglected to ask, despite the burning thought of it in the back of my mind. Ah, but… his name was Levi? Well at least I’d learned something about him without any real repercussions. 

"Right, and I’m—"

"Eren Jaeger, I know."

I felt my stomach tie in knots and my throat run dry in confusion at his response. A startled blink and then a short nod followed, and I was unable to decide whether or not I should be annoyed because he’d cut me off, confused because he knew who I was and I hadn’t even told him, or embarrassed because I felt the need to tell him my name at all. The confusion was probably entirely apparent upon my face, because at my sudden silence, he’d simply rolled his eyes and shook his head as if I was a complete idiot. Then I remembered that my apron at the café had my name printed on it — but it still didn’t explain anything. Up until he’d helped me out, I hadn’t been within two feet of him at all. If anything, I’d been avoiding him. Either his eyes were excruciatingly eagle visioned, or he was psychic. Neither of those choices really struck me as feasible, though.

"Um… is it entirely possible for me to… uh… borrow your shower? O-or if not, y’know… a glass of water and a tooth brush would be nice… or just my clothes… yeah…"

Unsure of my words, or just taking precaution for the fact that I expected him to interrupt my speech again, I uttered the request almost under my breath. I recalled him saying that he’d kick me out as soon as I could stand, but I didn’t know what exactly that would entail. Fortunately, the raven nodded, despite his deadpan face, and made his way towards the arch that I’d walked through beforehand and turning left, out of my sights. I stood still in silence, confused, because he hadn’t beckoned me to follow, nor gave any verbal cues to do so. It was only when he’d returned, sighed in disgruntlement, uttered something about ‘useless kids’, and parted sallow lips to implore me to ‘hurry up and follow him before he changed his mind’, did I realise that I was a complete idiot, and he had expected me to follow him in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and sorry for not updating this in a long while. I'm really sorry to say this, but I'm going to be discontinuing this series. I'll post what I have left, and any other things, but if I'm really honest, I've just fallen out of love with SNK right now. Sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is [suoyagyu](http://suganetachibana.tk/) from tumblr!
> 
> Thank you to all who are reading this, and the lovely comments that you have left. Please don't be shy with critique, though I'd rather you message me on tumblr since I'm on it pretty much 24/7. I don't have anyone to beta this for me, so I do it all myself, and I miss things sometimes, so please forgive any perspective changes or tense changes or any other glaring grammatical errors. If you see anything like that, please [message me!](http://suganetachibana.tk/ask)
> 
> I track the tags: aetherytes and fic: ego monstro on tumblr, too.


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